


This Is Gonna Require So Much Therapy

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [29]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Incest, Glory Hole, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3006266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a place about an hour up the road, in Trinity County, that has everything John needs. A crowded dance floor, writhing bodies, and a bathroom stall with a hole in the wall that never does get patched up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Gonna Require So Much Therapy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoMoMomma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoMoMomma/gifts).



> December Fic Spree, Day 29: Gift for momomomma2!
> 
> Happy December 29th!

John slides into the stall, throwing the bolt with shaking hands before fumbling with his belt and zipper. His button nearly doesn't come loose, but he tears at the denim of his jeans, and finally it pops free. 

He's been waiting so long for this. 

He doesn't get a lot of free time as it is, between work and the supernatural taking over his life. And when he gets a rare night free of all other drama, he tries to make up for lost time with his son. But when Stiles turns big eyes on him and murmurs about how he's made other plans, notes of sorrow in his tone, it doesn't take much for John to smile in understanding and shove his kid out the door.

And if he's bolting only minutes after Stiles, well. A man has needs.

He goes outside of Beacon County. There's a place about an hour up the road, in Trinity County, that has everything John needs. A crowded dance floor, writhing bodies, and a bathroom stall with a hole in the wall that never does get patched up.

It's there that John disappears to when the need becomes an itch under his skin. When the furrier among his son's friends start giving him wary looks and hanging back just a bit. 

A rap of knuckles on the partition between the stalls jolts John back to himself, and he rips a condom from his pocket, slicking it quickly over his length. He feeds his cock through the hole and feels the grip of fingers. _Someone else's_ fingers, which is… all right. It's not what he was hoping for, but he'll take it and not bitch.

But instead of jacking him like he's expecting, the fingers smooth over his length, leaving behind a cool sensation that he knows from experience can only be lube. His heart starts knocking around inside his chest as his belly swoops with anticipation. 

Lube… lube only means one thing. 

There's the sound of shuffling feet on the other side of the wall, and the fingers wrapped around him drop his dick before grabbing it again at a different angle. His dick gets lifted, and his cockhead is pressing up against something warm, tight. There's pressure against him, the slight give of flesh, and suddenly he's sliding in all the way. 

A grunt punches out of John, a low sound that's filled with everything he hasn't felt in far too long. The clench of this stranger's ass around his dick is so good. So fucking good. John has to reach up, has to wrap his hand over the top of the stall wall, has to grab on tight to something that can anchor him to earth. 

His hips are jerking, little shuddering jolts that he can't stop. But the person on the other side grinds back, pulls forward a little before thumping back, shaking the entire stall. 

John eases the fingers of his free hand through the ragged, chipped away hole in the wall, skims the tips of them lightly over the muscle that's stretched so tight and perfect around his cock. That nets him a muffled moan from the other side, and his hips jerk again in reaction.

That one little thrust sets them in motion. Before long, John finds himself planting one foot against the toilet for leverage, putting his back to it in ways he'll definitely be feeling tomorrow. He's got both hands wrapped around the top of the stall, knocking grunts out of himself and more of those muffled moans out of his partner. 

He's close, he's _embarrassingly_ close, but he needs just... a little more. Needs...

"Come on," he urges, knocking forward again, stomach pressed flush to the wall. "Come for me."

There's a sudden tension in the body he's fucking before a little, strangled cry reaches his ears. Something about the sound sets off his instincts, but it's too late for that because he suddenly feels the ass he's balls-deep in squeezing tight in little fluttery pulses all around his dick.

Unable to reach his anonymous partner's hips, he settles for squeezing the partition tight as his own orgasm swamps him. He rides it out, fucking his partner gently through the aftershocks until he has to grab hold of the condom and withdraw. 

He gives himself a moment to relax into the sensations still rocketing through him, then he disposes of the condom easily before cleaning himself off with a wad of toilet paper. Tucking and zipping takes but a few seconds and then he listens intently.

It's bad etiquette to leave at the same time as the other person, but it sounds like his partner is still gathering himself, so John shrugs and calls out a gruff, "Thanks," before letting himself from the stall and going to wash his hands at the sink.

He's just about done when he hears the sound of the other stall's lock snapping open. John freezes, water still rushing over his hands, not sure what to do. But the decision is taken away from him when the door starts to swing open. He drops his eyes to his hands, concentrates on them hard, and scrubs up quickly. It's not 'til after he's done and reaching for a paper towel to dry off with that he automatically looks up and sees his partner's reflection in the grimy mirror.

_"Stiles?!"_

His son stares back at him, eyes to wide and dark in a too-pale face. His pants are still undone, still hanging loose around his thighs, though he's at least pulled his underwear up over himself. John wants to turn around, wants to… wants to _fix this_ , but he's frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare at his son who's staring back at him and know that he just… 

He just fucked his son in the grimy stall of a club bathroom an hour and change from his house.

"Dad?"

John starts shaking then, hearing that voice, and it comes back to him, the sound Stiles made just before he came. That little bitten off, helpless noise. The noise he makes when he comes, the one John _actually knows_ , not just from this but because of the nights Stiles has forgotten himself when laying in his bed at night, touching himself. The noise John has tried so hard to block out over the years, going so far as to open a hole in his wall and add some blow-in insulation in an attempt to muffle it. 

Stiles stumbles forward, jerking his pants up around his hips, and rushes toward John, pulling him around, taking his face between his cold, sweaty hands. "Hey, hey. It's okay. Calm down. Shit, don't you dare have a heart attack on me, old man."

John scowls at that, can't help it. It's an automatic reaction these days. "I'm not having a fucking heart attack, kid." The words roll off his tongue by rote, his go-to response every time Stiles starts in on him about his cholesterol. _Jesus._

"Panic attacks aren't much better," Stiles whispers, meeting John's eyes head-on for the first time all night. "So, I uh. Yeah." His fingers flex before he drops them away, and he's looking down, to the side, flickering his gaze anywhere but at John. "Come here often?" he asks before wincing with his whole body.

John just shakes his head and reaches down, adjusting Stiles' pants and buttoning and zipping them. He tries not to think about doing this for a much smaller version of his son all those years ago. 

"Dad. I can…"

John shakes his head, finishes getting Stiles presentable and then looks up. He wants to say something, but there is literally nothing he can think of to fill the horrific silence that's fallen between them. Of course, that's when it hits him that Stiles was here for this. That Stiles may have been coming here -- or to places like this -- for a while. 

"How often?" he asks, voice sounding more harsh than he means it to.

"Not. This, uh, was…" Stiles waves a hand around, teeth sinking into his lip. He must see something on John's face though, because he scowls and shakes his head sharply. "No. Stop that. If it hadn't been you, it'd have been someone else. Someone who wouldn't have… cared if I...." 

John can hear his own voice, gruff and breathless, urging his partner to come for him, and another flashwave of heat washes through him. "Don't come back here," he says now, his hands gripping Stiles' arms a touch too hard. "You're better than this place. You don't need…"

Stiles wrenches himself away, too many emotions twisting up his face before he shakes his head again. "Don't start being a hypocrite now. If it's good enough for you…" He trails off, the words weighted with meaning. "Besides." A muscle twitches in his jaw and he laughs, sharp and brittle. "You think you've got it bad? I've never come harder in my life than I did when I heard my father's voice telling me to come for him. So."

The words take John back, make him feel the phantom ripples of the tightest, hottest ass he can ever remember around his dick. Oh well, in for a penny… Wrapping his hand around the back of Stiles' neck is a familiar move, one he's done too many times to count. But this time, instead of pulling him into a simple hug, John drags him forward and brushes their mouths together. 

It's wrong. Hell, he knows how wrong it is. But there's no reason to compound the sleazy anonymity of this whole encounter by walking away without offering at least this. 

And if Stiles makes another bitten-off sound and falls against him, kissing him back desperately, well… His insurance includes therapy.

So much therapy.


End file.
